Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered
by SailOnSilvergirl
Summary: From the song of the same name. These are one-shots; each chapter has two stories, one from Sherlock's point of view, one from John's. (OK, there's a bonus one for "Bewildered".) This is a birthday gift to sevenpercent. With tons of thanks to J Baillier for the hand-holding and beta-ing. Thanks to the rest of the Coven for their encouragement.
1. Bewitched

The case was over. Again, successful. _Of course_ , John thought. Cases rarely go unsolved after Sherlock is through with them.

But Sherlock was not having his usual after-case high. There was no smug satisfaction in the figure leaning heavily against the cab door who looked as dismal as the rain that pelted the windscreen, encasing the taxi in a sodden blanket of gray.

John knew better than to speak; it was doubtful any words would penetrate the shroud of isolation Sherlock had wrapped around himself. John sighed, grateful for the soft music coming from the radio. The words called to him.

 _When the rain is blowing in your face_

 _And the whole world is on your case_

 _I could offer you a warm embrace_

 _To make you feel my love.*_

Is that how he felt about Sherlock? For want of a better word, they were definitely _connected_. He couldn't deny that there was a unique _something_ in the relationship they had. John knew that he saw what others did not: the humanity buried beneath Sherlock's harsh exterior – tempered steel that was tough, but more brittle than most others realised.

Sherlock was amazing. _OK, Watson, admit it-you are bewitched!_ But- _love_? Is that what he felt?

It took but a moment's reflection to know the answer.

 _Yes._

But what kind of love? He had absolutely no idea, and that thought alone shook him to his foundation. _I'm going to have to re-write my definition of it,_ he thought. Of all the people in the world, Sherlock had chosen him as his only friend. Beyond that, Sherlock kept the depth of his feelings reinforced by a rebar.

It had been an unsettling case. A seven-year-old girl had gone missing, and the baffled police had launched a particularly hurtful counter-attack at Sherlock after a barrage of insults from the Consulting Detective. The parents were hurling accusations at the nanny not minding the girl properly, and a ten-year-old boy was crying while a woman was chastising him for making a scene.

"No one believes me!" the boy screamed. "There was a man. He took Chrissie. I saw him. He wrapped his ugly scarf around her mouth. Why won't anyone believe me?"

John saw something shift in Sherlock's expression before he uttered _"Oh!"_

A man barked: "Will someone please get that kid out of here?"

"Shut up, all of you!" Sherlock shouted. He turned toward the boy. John tensed; if Sherlock was going to go off on that child, John was going to have none of it.

"I believe you." The soft baritone somehow silenced the room where his shout had not.

John flanked Sherlock as he started across the room. "Brian," John supplied, sotto voce.

Sherlock stopped in front of the boy. "I believe you, Brian."

"Describe it."

Brian looked confused by the non-sequitur. Sherlock gently put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "The scarf. What colour was the scarf?"

"It looked like throw up."

Sherlock nodded, not reacting in the slightest to the boy's choice of words.

"John, the photos?"

John had watched, transfixed, as the Consulting Detective had gone from brusque and belittling everyone in the room-John included-to gentle and caring, his penetrating stare now softly focused on the boy. It took him a moment to realise Sherlock had addressed him.

Sherlock's eyes never left the boy's. " _Now_ , please, John."

"Right." John handed him the pile of crime scene photos and stills from the CCTV cameras.

Sherlock ransacked them until he found the one he wanted. "This man," Sherlock said with certainty, as he pointed to a man, barely discernible on the periphery of the playground, who was wearing a hideous chartreuse scarf.

The boy nodded emphatically. "Yes! Yes, that's him!"

It was the break in the case they'd needed. Young Chrissie was found, frightened but unmolested by the sexual predator now in police custody.

In the back of the cab, Sherlock stirred. He looked at John with a knowing expression.

"You have questions."

"When don't I?"

"You want to know why. Why this case was...different... for me."

John nodded. Sherlock always seemed to know precisely the questions John wanted answered-something else he found bewitching about the man.

"They didn't listen to the boy. He'd told the first responders about the man in the scarf but they dismissed him. Didn't listen to what they considered the ramblings of a child. I was ignored once, too, and because of that I couldn't save Carl Powers or bring his killer to justice. But Brian saved Chrissie today."

John nodded emphatically. "You both saved her, Sherlock. It was amazing how you remembered the scarf in those photos when no one else did. You made a difference. To her. And to that boy. Because you believed him."

As Sherlock's gaze softened, a gentle silence fell between them.

John's attention was drawn again to the lyrics coming from the radio.

 _I know you haven't made up your mind yet._

 _But I would never do you wrong_

 _I've known it from the moment that we met_

 _No doubt in my mind where you belong._

He knew with absolute certainty that Sherlock trusted him. Trusted him with his life. But did he feel the same sense of _belonging_ that kept John returning to Baker Street despite the sometimes thoughtless, hurtful words Sherlock spat at his flatmate when he felt necessary to protect himself by lashing out?

 _The storms are raging on the rolling sea_

 _And on the highway of regret_

 _The winds of change are blowing wild and free_

 _You haven't seen nothing like me yet._

He had too many regrets already. Not making his – what? dedication? _commitment_? – known to the slightly mad detective would be one regret he could not tolerate. Their partnership was still relatively new but he could feel the shift in their relationship; he sensed a slow but inevitable continental drift that would bring them closer. He'd already surprised Sherlock on more than one occasion.

 _Oh,_ _Sherlock, you ain't seen nothin' yet_.

Could John ever say these things out loud? He'd feel highly uncomfortable doing so and Sherlock, well, he'd... who the hell knew what Sherlock Holmes would do? Withdraw? Sneer? Or would he surprise and bewitch John yet again with a tiny lift of the corner of his mouth and his signature eye roll that whispered _obviously_?

 _Nothing that I wouldn't do  
Go to the ends of the earth for you  
To make you feel my love_

No, he could never say these things aloud. As far as John knew, Sherlock could never be bewitched by someone as ordinary as he was.

But, Sherlock often seemed to be able to read his mind. When words seemed too treacherous a route, maybe he might transmit his feelings by sheer force of will.

.

.

*Lyrics to "Make You Feel My Love" by Bob Dylan.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Yet another case was over and again, the result was a success! That is, if this particular one could be classified as such without sounding grotesque in a way others would frown upon, Sherlock thought.

According to _people_ , any case that ended in a fatality could hardly be celebrated as a success, but the end result could have been even worse – much, much worse, if it weren't for his conductor of light.

The high that accompanied any resolution was there, but it was tempered by the undeniable, embarrassing fact that he had missed something. Two things, in fact, and it had been John who had remedied the first of these oversights, leading to the resolution of the case.

John, whose contributions were often dismissed or undervalued by himself, by Sherlock _and_ by the police... Tonight John had received due acknowledgement from everyone involved, so it had to be something else. Was something else missing?

 _Oh!_ he realized!

This wasn't about something _missing._ It was something _extra_ , something _novel_ , something _unprecedented_ that he was feeling: John had been _amazing_.

What was wrong with him; he never used words like that to describe anyone.

As verbose as Sherlock knew he was, he was not good with words. Not words that had to do with _feelings_. How could he tell John how important he'd become to him when he couldn't effectively describe it to himself?

John was huddled into himself, his temple pressed against the window of the cab. Sherlock would usually ask the cabbie to turn off the radio, but tonight he hoped it would help John recover from the evening's events. If John hadn't been by his side tonight, the body count could have much been much higher.

The words of the song on the radio drifted into his awareness.

 _Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you.  
Baby, I'm a man, maybe I'm a lonely man  
Who's in the middle of something  
That he doesn't really understand.*_

That much was true, although he cringed at the use of the word _baby_. Such purposeless sentiment!

Who the _hell_ was this man sitting beside him, and what right did he have to shove his mental equilibrium so off kilter? Why the hell was he even asking these questions?

Within two days of meeting John, his army doctor had passed muster not only with him, but with the fraternal overlord. Now, barely a month into sharing their flat, John had eased a loneliness he hadn't been aware he'd felt. The damned man was positively _bewitching_.

Tonight, they hadn't even been on a case; instead, they'd been in East London doing research. They had just started to turn the corner onto Wellington Road when Sherlock roughly pulled John back. With a quick sweep of his eyes, Sherlock had taken in and assessed the entire scene: a dozen young men from two gangs - the Woodgrange E7 and the Beckton E6 - stood on opposite sides of the street, obviously in a stare-down that could escalate into bloodshed in a moment's notice.

Two older men, 60s, homeless, watched from nearby; the elder of the two was especially on guard, his eyes edgy, his movements jerky as he stood and reached toward his back pocket. The situation was volatile: gun and knife crime in London had soared over the last year.

That's when it all had gone to hell.

The music from the cab's radio called out to Sherlock again, shaking him out of his recent memories. He could see slight tremors still running through John's body, hear the barely audible _"Christ"_.

 _Maybe I'm amazed at the way you're with me all the time,  
Maybe I'm afraid of the way I leave you._

"You all right?"

"Adrenaline crash." John's voice was rough with emotion.

Sherlock did his best eye roll and got the hoped-for flicker of a grin from his partner. _Partner? Colleague? Friend?_

John then turned to look out the window, and Sherlock reviewed the night's events in his head yet again.

A boy had come around a corner and walked casually down the street, seemingly oblivious to the tense situation. He was clean shaven, decently dressed but wearing a jacket too large for his small frame, innocence still etched in his face.

That's when the homeless man took a few steps forward.

Beside Sherlock, John had tensed.

"John-?" Sherlock lay a hand on his arm in warning.

The doctor's eyes darted between the boy and the man, and then he was in motion, gun drawn, before Sherlock could react.

The homeless man also surged forward, his hand reaching into his pocket, retrieving a knife. The gang members were agitated, some moving forward warily while others, battle-weary, stepped back.

"Don't do it!" John screamed. Pleaded. "Don't!"

Sherlock charged toward the man who was rushing the boy, but John's full attention was now on the youngster, who reached under his jacket and pulled out a short-barrelled semi-automatic. Before he could take aim, John fired.

The boy fell, dead, centre shot.

Soon, the area was bathed in blue flashing lights of a Met gang task force patrol. Since everything had taken place in a public space, only Sherlock's surreptitious texts to his brother and Lestrade had ensured the doctor's protection.

Still, Sherlock and John had been separated before giving their statements.

Now, in the safety of the taxi, Sherlock still did not fully understand how John could have been certain that the boy had been the threat and not the older man. In fact, like John, the older man had put himself in jeopardy trying to stop the boy.

There was always _something_. When it came to John Watson, he always missed some detail or truth which turned out to be pertinent.

 _Maybe I'm amazed at the way you help me sing my song,  
Right me when I'm wrong-  
Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you._

How did John right him when the Consulting Detective was so wrong tonight? What did he see that Sherlock hadn't?

"His eyes," John said quietly as though telepathic. "That's how I knew. I hesitated the last time. In Afghanistan. It was a boy then, too," he said, his voice cracking the slightest bit.

John's voice breaking was not all right, Sherlock decided.

"Same look in his eyes, same stance. Two of my men died. I owed it to them not to hesitate ever again."

Sherlock nodded, but John was still staring vacantly out of the window at the light-studded darkness of London floating by.

"And then you saw the gun," Sherlock concluded. Off John's nod, he continued. "The police said he was trying to get into another gang, having reasoned that taking out members from two rival ones would impress the leaders."

John snorted in disgust.

"But the man, John, he had a knife. How-?"

John finally made eye contact. "His eyes, too."

Sherlock wasn't following. Or, this was not the full story yet.

"Okay, that and the tattoo on his neck. Parachute Regiment, Special Air Service, Falklands."

"Hmm. A veteran," Sherlock said, kicking himself for missing yet another thing. "PTSD?"

"Probably. But it didn't stop him from trying to save lives tonight."

Sherlock looked admiringly at his friend. He didn't say _PTSD didn't stop you, either_ because he didn't need to. They read each other's minds.

 _Maybe he is amazed_ , he conceded. Frightened, too. He had never been swept up, taken in, _bewitched_ like this by anyone. Ever. Was John even aware of the effect he had on him? Despite his occasional shining moments, the man could be really quite obtuse.

As the cab continued on its way toward the haven of Baker Street, the tension in John's shoulders began to dissipate, and Sherlock sighed in relief.

He bathed in his conductor's light and decided that there were worse things in life than being thoroughly bewitched.

.

.

* Lyrics to "Maybe I'm Amazed" by Paul McCartney.


	2. Bothered

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stood slightly apart from DI Lestrade, Sgt. Donovan, and Forensics' Anderson, whilst the rest of the team were held at bay just beyond the open door. Sherlock bent to more closely examine the body again.

John stared, mouth open, a question forming.

"Don't bother trying to speak, John, you'll hurt yourself."

Then the Forensics lead, Anderson, made the mistake of prattling on about his theories. When Sherlock paid him no mind, he huffed in indignation and asked, "Are you even listening to me?"

Sherlock didn't bother looking up. "Sorry. For a moment, I must have drifted off. I found myself inexplicably thinking about guano."

John gave an eye roll. Sherlock stood and took a deep breath. John cringed. _Oh, boy, here it comes,_ he thought. _There's no stopping it. It'll be me doing damage control again._

As if on cue, he saw Sherlock spin toward the DI and Sergeant.

"I've given you the details, Lestrade, handed them to you on a platter."

Greg's hand rose, a finger pointing uselessly toward the Consulting Detective. Sherlock brushed it away as he swirled to face the group.

"I would speak more succinctly but that would be a waste of your time and, more importantly, mine, since, obviously, your undersized brains cannot understand what I've already so clearly enunciated. Consequently, putting it in fewer words will only confound you to the point of involuntary muteness."

John had had enough. He grabbed a certain startled consulting detective by the collar of his precious coat, and pushed him into the other room, slamming the door behind them.

"Can't you just once contain yourself and _pretend_ to be civilized? You study human behaviour enough to be able to fake every other emotion. Why not give it a try? Might be an educational experience."

Sherlock huffed and straightened his collar. "My behaviour bothers you."

"Yes, I'm bothered, Sherlock."

"No one's making you stay."

John bit back the nasty retort his brain had defaulted to. "Just take a moment, slap on that fake smile of yours, and go back out there before I put you in a corner and make you count to ten. You're acting like an arse."

"Ah, you think I am embarrassing you!" Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "Perhaps an ego-strengthening session with Ella is in order."

John's eyes narrowed and his hand clenched into a fist. In a threateningly quiet voice, he said, "I'd advise you to stop talking now."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, then turned and opened the door. John kicked it shut.

"I'm not finished. Behave! You don't live in this world in a vacuum. You need people."

"I don't-"

"Shut up. Don't interrupt me again." John was on a tear, his anger mounting. "You need people, or you wouldn't have The Work. People need you to help them clear these tough cases. And don't say your behaviour doesn't reflect on me because it does. It bloody well does. Because I've allied myself with you. Because I'm your friend. You act like a bully. And I won't have it. Apparently, you've had lessons. Learned from the best, did you, Sherlock, when you were a kid?"

It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. John's tongue could be brutally sharp, too.

Sherlock blinked several times.

"Oh, Christ," John breathed. "I didn't mean-" He looked down and away, not at all sure how to handle this. He didn't dare show pity or derision, nor was there any sense of triumph when he finally said, "That's it, isn't it? You were bullied."

Sherlock paled.

"What did or did not happen in my childhood has no bearing-"

"Bullshit. Is that what drives your verbal attacks? Better your tongue than your fist. Strike first before they do? Hurt them before-"

"Can we end this conversation before you truly embarrass yourself? What's past is past. Nothing to be done about it."

"Oh, no. You're very good at deflection and denial." John gentled his voice. "Put that brilliant brain of yours to work, and remember the statistics. Sexually abused kids often become offenders. Kids of domestic violence tend to become abusers. And the bullied become bullies."

"John, I - ." He squirmed. John waited until his friend was able to speak. It was a whisper. "It's _private_."

John had seen a wide range of emotions in his friend, but he had never seen him look humiliated. The man's face was red, eyes glassy, and his shoulders were hunched, as if he were trying to curl into himself and disappear. The good doctor wanted to lay his hand on every child, classmate, relative, minister, and other adult who contributed to what must have been years of ridicule, physical and emotional bullying.

"And it will stay that way, Sherlock. Won't leave this room. Unless you're willing to talk to me about it. Talk to me, and I'll tell you about my father, and I'll tell you how much of a target short boys are."

Sherlock was shocked. "I-. But you're not-"

"A bully? I was. Twelve, thirteen years old." He watched as his friend took that in; Sherlock's eyes had been everywhere but making eye contact. Now, they settled on John's face and the soft smile John made certain was there."Nothing is written in stone, Sherlock. Not my life, not yours. You can write, or re-write your own story."

Sherlock took a deep, calming breath and straightened up to his usual Everest height.

"Ready to go back now? And not bother anyone?"

"Yes, John."

"Wait." John reached out and pulled up the collar of his friend's Belstaff. "There, that's better."

What John could only describe as warmth softened his Sherlock's angular features. The doctor opened the door and stood back while his friend entered first. Sherlock looked composed; John wouldn't say contrite - that would be asking too much. Sherlock gave a slight incline to his head and looked first at Lestrade, then Anderson and Donovan.

"Gentlemen, lady. Shall we continue?"

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sherlock was hunched over the kitchen table, examining the particulates in an Erlenmeyer flask. John's presence was annoying.

"Don't be a bother."

"I'm not doing anything. Haven't even said a word."

"You're breathing."

He sighed, as John made no move to leave the kitchen. He refocused his attention on the flask, or at least tried to. He sensed John moving behind him. John did not like being ignored. Normally, Sherlock welcomed the calming, warm presence of his flatmate-turned-bedmate, but...

He suddenly felt John's arms wrap around him from behind. John was just the right height to give a quick nibble to the lanky man's earlobe before kissing him on the neck, then whispering, "Build me up, Buttercup, don't break my heart."

The glare that came off a certain Consulting Detective's face could have started another Ice Age.

"You will never again, under any circumstances, repeat that supposed unintelligible endearment, within the confines of these walls or without, or I will take this liquid nitrogen sprayer and aim it at your toes, after which I will step on them and put the results under my microscope for the advancement of science."

Sherlock's finger twitched on the N2 sprayer and the stream froze the blue silk belt of his dressing gown, which shattered against the countertop.

"I'm sorry, Pumpkin."

Sherlock sighed.

It happened twice more in the following days. He found himself being called _Cupcake_ while in the queue at Tesco's, _Bun Buns_ at Molly's Pathology Lab, and _Sweetpants_ at Angelo's.

"They're pet names," John had explained.

"I am not your pet! If anything, you-"

"Don't even go there, Sweet'ums," John warned.

Then the endearments halted.

For three days.

The Consulting Detective found their absence decidedly disconcerting. Annoying. Bothersome.

But- how could their absence possibly be bothersome? Logic should dictate that their absence would be welcome. It wasn't. This relationship game was confusing.

Sherlock took to the internet for answers. It only made things worse. The Oxford Dictionary was barely helpful; he Googled "the etiquette of giving pet names," and "the dummies guide to nicknames for your boyfriend", which, in turn led him to "dirty nicknames for guys" (including Juice-ifer"), and "vulgar endearments"; then he took to twitter to see what was trending- #nicknames, #popular endearments" and every variation thereof; which unfortunately led him to the Urban Dictionary where he discovered "rude names for body parts", some of which he had heard John direct at him, and which left him with an entire wing of his Mind Palace that he would have to thoroughly purge.

Later that day, Sherlock was presiding over the latest crime scene he'd been summoned to by the Met's incompetency. What had seemed a delightful eight had progressively slipped to a seven and was now hovering around a pathetic five. He couldn't contain his need to pace, and John was giving him a wide berth - annoying. Why was it annoying? He didn't want him hovering, or contributing something obvious or stupid - he'd leave that to Anderson- but John had barely said a word and that was decidedly bothersome.

John finally spoke up. "I haven't noticed anything you haven't, Honeybuns."

Lestrade snorted into his coffee. The others stifled gasps or stood with their mouths agape.

The glacial stare made a reappearance.

"That's hot- I mean, _not_ helpful, John."

"You call me your conductor of light. I'm just trying to _light_ en things up. Get it?"

No, Sherlock did not get it. Was it a joke? It must have been a joke, an _abysmal_ one, because there were scattered groans in the background.

"If you have something actually relevant to contribute, John, I suggest say it now because this case has sunk to a three and I am thirty seconds from returning to Baker Street."

John gave a fake smile to Lestrade. "Excuse us a minute." He took Sherlock's arm and led him into the next room.

It always made Sherlock wary when John did something like this.

"You're frustrated," John began his explanation. Off Sherlock's look, he quickly added, "No, not in _that_ sense" and Sherlock suppressed a smile as John's colour rose.

Apparently undaunted, John continued. "You always get snarkier when you're frustrated with yourself. Especially when you don't solve a case in under three minutes."

His doctor raised his hand and lay it against Sherlock's cheek. That felt...um...warm? Nice? Good? His command of language seemed to be vanishing.

"So, lighten up, Sherlock. You're still faster than they are. If you manage to relax a bit, maybe even smile, then take a second look; sometimes you see things you hadn't noticed before."

"Do I?" Sherlock looked dubious. He dipped down into his Mind Palace for a quick check-in and realised that John was right. _Damn it._

"OK? John asked. "Ready to be brilliant again?"

Sherlock smiled. A bright, from-the-heart, genuine smile.

John smiled back. "Then let's do it, Sweet Cheeks."

Sherlock was chortling-and blushing-as they rejoined the police team in the other room.

"Crime scene. No laughing," John sort of whispered.

"Right."

Sherlock noticed that Lestrade had buried his face in his hands. Donovan and Anderson looked more perturbed than usual, and Sherlock realised that they all probably thought he and John had gone to the next room to-. Sherlock cut short that line of thought before it went any further, and he had to clear his throat before assuming as much of a Consulting Detective façade as he could muster. He then swept the room with his eyes again.

"Oh! It's just gone up to a nine!"

He and John exchanged looks. A nod between them said it all.

Later that evening, the occupants of Baker Street were sharing a simple meal and coming down from the high of yet another case solved. Sherlock was giving little attention to the food. Instead, he found himself mentally reviewing some of the nicknames John had given him: _Butter Butt, Sweet Cheeks, Bubble Buns..._ Hmmm.

"John." Sherlock cleared his throat. It was a tell of his, but it couldn't be helped as the question formed on his lips. "Many of your colloquialisms seem to be centred around a specific part of my anatomy: butt, cheeks, bun... "

"I hadn't realised." John thought about it for a moment, then replied, "Yeah, makes sense." He nodded enthusiastically.

Sherlock's face was screwed up in puzzlement, a look he knew John found endearing. It took a moment for the pieces to fall into place, for him to decipher what John meant. _"Oh!_ You mean you like my... my..."

"Arse. Yes. Yes, I do." John took a step toward him.

He wondered what his face was doing now, because whatever it was, John's look was positively predatory.

The detective felt his heart rate increase. He would have had to loosen his collar if it weren't already open.

Sherlock was decidedly hot and bothered, but decided it was no bother at all.


	3. Bewildered

The Consulting Detective is trying to work out a particularly complex problem that has him bewildered. Sherlock corrects himself; it is not the problem that has him bewildered, it is _John_. They have spent the better part of a half-hour decidedly not looking at each other. If it isn't Sherlock averting his eyes, it is John averting his.

Finally, Sherlock can't stand it anymore and the words blurt out of his mouth before he can stop them: "You are a wonder, John Watson."

Now, they definitely _are_ facing each other. Did John Watson just _blush_? Sherlock congratulates himself. Any unexpected reaction is worthy of note. Yet, he hasn't meant to cause such reaction; he is simply stating a fact.

"Um..." John stammers, putting down the piece of rubbish fiction he's been reading. Sherlock has held himself back for days from spoiling the ending. John never takes that well.

The blush is replaced with a suspicious look.

"How do you do it?" Sherlock asks.

"Pardon?"

Sherlock bounds off the sofa and proceeds to whirl around the confines of 221B.

"I am more than familiar with the workings of the human mind, the difference between the basal, downright reptilian systems required for survival and the feeling brain of the limbic system, especially the amygdala, that brilliant little almond – oh, what a little marvel that is..."

John is nodding as if this is new information, which Sherlock certainly knows it isn't. They _must_ have taught John at least some of this in medical school, but then again, his brain sometimes seems like a sieve.

"... and, of course, the intricacies of the executive functioning of the thinking brain of the cortex, which, by my observations, goes mostly unused by the great percentage of the population of the world, particularly in certain parts of the United States. John, you are nuanced, complicated, and contradictory. Of course, everyone is. But you are more so than your average person. I have called you average on multiple occasions, Dartmore comes to mind, and for that I am apparently mistaken and I apologize. It is unsettling how I could have perpetrated such an oversight. In short-"

"In _short_?"

Sherlock ignores him.

"What I'm trying to say is... You are completely bewildering!"

 _There, I've said it!_

John looks at him oddly, opens his mouth to say something, closes it, nods, finally manages a long, drawn out and dubious: "O-kaayy."

Sherlock's brain is working much faster than his tongue, so he ventures off on a tangent: "You are a doctor and a soldier. How is that possible? There was a time when medical personnel were not permitted to carry weapons."

"Now we are. We're allowed to protect ourselves. We are fully trained soldiers."

 _Hmm, interesting._ John had used "we," "ourselves", and the present tense. He still must consider himself on some kind of active duty.

"I'm aware. When did it change? Why did it change? Who-"

"The Geneva Accords offered protection, on paper, for us. Everyone's heard about the white armbands identifying medics, yeah? You know what happened? Wearing the band made them a target, something that was actually aimed at. Like the red cross insignia that sometimes comes under attack; hospitals, ambulances... Eliminate your enemy's medics, you win the war. It's not just the practical effect, it's psychological warfare."

"You're off topic."

"You asked."

"Did I? You're distracting me. The topic was _you_."

"Sorry. Okay. You were saying I am a wonder."

"Are you mocking me? I'm trying to be nice."

"New experience. Sorry. Continue."

Suddenly Sherlock changes the whole tenor of the conversation: "You have killed people. This morning, you beat a person up. Quite severely, in fact."

Sherlock focuses his full attention on his flatmate, trying to glean every nuance of his expressions.

John appears to be caught up short but acknowledges what Sherlock says with a simple declarative: "I did."

"Reptilian brain."

"I don't need to remind you that I have a temper... He was a threat-"

"Oh, no apologies necessary. Might have done the same if I got to him first."

"So...?"

"So, I am not a doctor. So, within seconds, you had run twenty metres and were cradling a toddler, soothing her in the softest voice I've ever heard you use. So, every trace of the soldier was gone."

"Not _gone,_ exactly _._ Just...suspended."

How do you be a doctor _and_ a soldier?"

"You just explained it. Emotional brain and thinking brain, in the same, well, _brain_. It's...um...like a toggle switch."

"I didn't ask _how_ you do it, I asked _how can_ you do it? How can you reconcile these two incongruent mindsets? It's like you're two different people."

"And you have a problem with that."

Sherlock launches himself out of his chair. "Obviously I have a problem with it. It is baffling and disconcerting in the extreme. Why else would I be spending half the night trying to solve it when I'd rather be spending my time estimating the percentage of the non-replicating subpopulation in the bacteria I'm cultivating in the kitchen?"

John is standing now but mercifully not shadowing him.

"Which one do you prefer?"

"The experiment or this problem? The experiment-"

"No, Sherlock, which one of my two persons."

"That's the problem! Because I don't know!" Sherlock charges at his flatmate and ends up inches from his face. "You are more than two. At least once a week, you're revealing yet another aspect of yourself and I'm having difficulty adjusting to that and it keeps me off balance and unsure and bewildered and I don't like it!"

Sherlock grunts in exasperation and backs off.

John sits down again. His forehead is wrinkled as if he's never considered this question before. Finally, he pats the seat next to him. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock takes the invitation.

"For me, it all comes down to saving lives, Sherlock. Whether I'm a doctor or a soldier, whether it's in a hospital, a GP surgery, or the battlefields of Afghanistan or London, it doesn't matter. That's my job. And if it means taking a life in order to save other lives, that's my job, and I will do it without hesitation and with a clear conscience." John nods, emphasising the end of his explanation.

It makes sense, at least _John-sense_ – the man's sense of justice and morality have always seemed situationally fluid. Sherlock realises that his own can hardly be described as rigid, either. It slides from one extreme to the other, much like a cursor on a slide rule, sometimes lingering in the middle as well.

"Quite a satisfactory answer, John. Thank you. Consider my bewilderment abated."

A twinkle lights up John's face. "You might not be thankful for long. Just wait till you see who I am tomorrow."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sherlock entered Baker Street in a whirl of indignation, ingloriously depositing himself horizontally on the sofa. John cast an admiring glance at his friend's bespoke formal clothes, which, even prone, looked so brilliantly tailored that they seemed to have been sculpted around him. He started to smirk until he saw his friend's brow knit with pain, his index fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Headache?"

"Brilliant, John," he sneered. "I am _thrilled_ that your years of medical training have gifted you with at least a modicum of diagnostic skills."

The barb rolled off John's shoulders like harmless mist. "You got a headache from a classical concert?"

"'Classical'? Hardly. It was the premiere of a symphony by an eastern European 'composer'– and I use the word loosely – who should have been sent to Siberia and kept away from any Royal Albert Hall. Mummy was impressed with the mathematical precision of it. It was strident, grating, and–"

"Sounds a bit like your playing when Mycroft's around."

The glare emanating from the flopped figure on the sofa made John purse his lips in amusement.

"Aside from acoustics, John, I see no reason for me to be physically present at the performance of any piece, let alone a..." – he shuddered in derision–"'modern' piece. As if the 'music' weren't bad enough–"

"Speaking in air quotes tonight, are we?"

That earned another glower.

"Make yourself useful and make me some tea, John."

"Please?"

"What?"

"I was suggesting you say 'please.'

Sherlock's brow furrowed further. "Never mind, I'll shut up now."

"Please," John said, knowing full well that Sherlock would not, indeed, shut up.

John heaved an exasperated sigh and set about making the tea while Sherlock continued his rant.

"As if the music weren't bad enough," he said, "the _people_! _Mingling! Pleasantries!_ Whoever named them that was an idiot. Pleasant to whom? Certainly not me. But I did overhear an interesting comment by one person. He quoted an American President whose thoughts on music mirror mine."

John came back into the room carrying two cups of steaming tea.

"Okay, I'll play along. What's the quote?"

"'Anything written after 1860 sucks.' My compositions excepted, of course."

"What! No. No. No president would talk like that. At least not in public." John said. "What President?" he asked, feeling a bit perplexed as he realised that the quote was ringing a distant bell.

"Bartlet."

"Bartlet?" If the teacup had been at his mouth, he would have done a spit-take.

"Yes."

" _President Bartlet_?" he asked, his eyebrows migrating off his face.

"Yes."

"You don't have a clue, do you?"

"I'm sure I heard it correctly."

"Yeah, ya did. In fact, I remember Bartlet saying that. President Bartlet." John paused. "Great episode."

Sherlock's confusion deepened.

"Do you really not know–? Of course you don't. You don't know who the Prime Minister is, so why would you know…?" The man really was a marvel. Brilliant, fearless, and absolutely clueless. Bewildering. "Josiah Bartlet. President of the United States. On a _television show_ , Sherlock."

It took a moment. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

"Not a real president, then?

"Unfortunately, no."

Sherlock nodded. "Pity, really. He had such good taste in music."

All Sherlock heard in response was John's bewildered sigh.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The yell of pain from the living room brought John, barefoot and in his boxers, tearing down the stairs from his bedroom.

"Sherlock!"

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" Sherlock swore.

The doctor's eyes went straight to his flat mate's bandaged upper right arm, or tried to—a near impossible task since Sherlock had his arm cradled against his body.

"Let me see. It might have become infected," he said, reaching out to stop his friend as he hopped and spun circles around the room. "Let me—"

"It's fine!" He pulled away.

"It's not fine. Sherlock, you were shot."

"I was grazed," he panted.

"Would you please—."

"The last time I looked, it didn't take a medical degree to determine if I had a fever or red streaks going up my arm," he spat out, his breathing still accelerated.

"And the last time I looked, it _did_ take a consulting detective to deliberately bait a career criminal with a gun."

Sherlock veered away from him again, leaving John facing the desk. There was a crumbled tissue with some blood on it, discarded on the floor behind the desk.

"You're bleeding."

"I'd hardly consider a drop of blood bleeding."

"Blood is blood."

Sherlock coiled into himself, as if trying to make himself disappear. Sherlock was hiding something, of that John was sure.

"You cried out." John's eyes narrowed as he noticed the abandoned sling, now hanging uselessly from the swing arm lamp. "Did you bang your arm? You do know you were meant to be wearing that. To help avoid, you know, banging it?"

Sherlock followed his gaze to the sling. "Worthless."

"Now that you're no longer breathing like you were shot in the other arm—"

"Grazed."

"Flesh wound."

"Semantics."

"Shot is shot, Sherlock!

"Go away."

"Nope." Doctor Watson not only stood his ground, he became fully entrenched, folding his arms in defiance.

"You didn't make a sound when you were shot"—he held up a warning finger at Sherlock, whose mouth was already starting to sound _graz..._. "Not a sound, Sherlock. Yet this? Whatever _this_ is, made you... It was loud. Loud enough to wake me." John waited. There was only sulky silence from his flatmate. "Don't make me call Mycroft and have him rewind the surveillance tape."

"You wouldn't."

"I would if I thought you were hiding something important."

"I'm not hiding—" John's eyes narrowed, stopping Sherlock in mid-sentence, his posture going rigid as anxiety emanated from every pour. "John. Please. Believe me when I say it's nothing."

The doctor paced. How to get through to him? His flatmate was as stubborn as he was, and when it came to matters of health, he could be positively intransigent.

"As your doctor and as your friend," he said patiently, "I'm asking you to tell me what happened." Silence. "OK, I guess you're going to make me deduce it."

That was met with a scoff.

John's gaze swept over Sherlock. Useless; he wasn't giving away anything. He glanced around the room until his eyes went back to the tissue on the floor behind the desk. Sherlock averted his eyes. The doctor walked over to the desk. Sherlock shifted nervously. John bent down, picked up the tissue, and as he rose he saw a piece paper on the desktop that had a thin line of blood on its edge. John saw Sherlock squeeze his eyes shut, looking mortified.

John was bewildered. "A _paper cut_? You got a paper cut? A paper cut hurt more than you being shot?"

"Grazed," he mumbled, apparently unable to stop himself.

Sherlock's bottom lip formed a little pout and he looked for all the world like a small, embarrassed child; it was one of the most endearing things John had ever seen. John almost laughed...until he mentally chastised himself. _You're an idiot!_ said to himself, remembering that Sherlock was, quite literally, wired differently: as neuro-atypical, he felt pain differently than others. John thanked the gods that he hadn't said the first sarcastic thing that came to mind. The conversation could have gone very badly, very fast. He breathed a sigh of relief before putting on his best clinical, non-judgemental voice.

"Okay. Well. That makes perfect sense, then. Fingertips have a higher concentration of nerve endings than the arm, so, naturally, even a slight injury can be more painful than a... _graze_...to an upper arm. And when you factor in the numbing effects of shock and the adrenaline surge you had..."

John watched as relief and gratitude spread through his friend's frame, who had looked like he was braced for a barrage of ridicule that he routinely received at the hands of the outside world.

Uncertain, Sherlock walked slowly to him and submissively proffered his finger. "Do you need to—?"

"Hmm. I should take a look. Could be serious," John said gravely, but his eyes were twinkling.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth tweaked up in a smile, which quickly became broader.

Small tremors started to shake John's shoulders. Desperate, he asked, "Is it all right to laugh now?"

Sherlock broke first, his deep belly laughs tripping John into a fit of giggles. After a few minutes, finally, they settled down, leaving only warmth between them.

John nodded, satisfied. He started to walk toward the kitchen but turned as he noticed Sherlock walk to his desk and put on his sling.

How could John not smile at the enigma before him? Sherlock was many things: annoying, astounding, exhilarating, and exasperating. He always left John bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. But the word that came to mind first, last, and always?

 _Amazing._


End file.
